A Timely Concerto (15 page)

One of my friends, a young woman named Daisy, just died having a baby. I wore her wedding dress at my wedding and I hope that isn’t some kind of omen.

Howard is a good husband and I love him very much. Right now, I am so afraid that he might fall sick and die because that is what happened to make him the ghost you remember as “The Man”.

It is very cold here but the house is warm. I missed all of you at Christmas and New Year’s.

Love,

Lillian

On the morning of Howard’s trip, she woke too early but feigned sleep as he roused and dressed for the day. When she rose, she saw his valise by the bedroom door, packed and ready for his trip. She hated it and glared at it, wanting to cry but she did not. Lillian didn’t go down to breakfast, either, but dressed and sat combing out her hair at the dressing table.

His feet danced up the stairs with a light, happy tread and he burst into the room, full of good spirits.

“Good morning, my dear love,” Howard said, reaching for the case. “I thought you might join me at breakfast.”

Lillian shook her head.

“No,” she said, with a sigh. Now that the tangles were gone, she traded the comb for a brush and brushed her hair. It had grown, now reaching below her waist. “Do you have to go?”

“I do, dearest wife.”

Tears choked her throat so she cleared it.

“Please stay warm,” Lillian said. “Don’t get chilled, Howard. I don’t want you to be sick even if I do have the Keflex.”

He chuckled and bent down to kiss her. “I have no desire to become ill either but I must go. I shall return tomorrow morning. Will you be well, dear Lillian?”

“I’ll be fine.”

She put her arms around him, solid and alive. That was still a miracle to her, one she must maintain if she could. “I’ll be fine, Howard, but I’ll miss you.”

“I will miss you like the dickens, Lillian but I shall return in the morning.”

“Be careful, Howard.”

He nodded, picked up his bag, and was gone. Shugie’s Jim would drive him to the train station and she imagined it, Howard walking through the other people at the depot. He would be shaking hands and greeting everyone. Then the steam train would pull out with a toot-toot of the whistle, heading southward over country she had never seen, riding down the rails on this cold, frosty morning, taking him away.

Lillian broke out of her reverie and put up her hair. Now she could do it without thinking and without using a mirror. She found her shoes, slipped into them, and went down the back stairs to the kitchen to see if Shugie might feed her a biscuit or some bacon. Shugie’s mood was almost as dark as hers was and after she poured Lillian a cup of coffee, she put her hands on her hips.

“You know something, don’t you?” Shugie asked. “You didn’t want Mister Howard to go down to Arkansas. Tell me why.”

Lillian stirred sugar into the cup. “I’m afraid he might get sick.”

“He don’t never get sick,” Shugie said. “You’re different. I don’t know just how or why but you ain’t no ordinary lady. I’ve bided my time and asked no questions but I know how you come to tea when he should have been at the farm, then you was here all night in the house before you supposed to have come on the train. I know you got secrets. Long as you love Mister Howard, I ain’t saying nothing but you got me worried too. Why you think he might get sick?”

Lillian choked on her first sip of coffee. What could she say? Oh, Shugie, I met Howard when he was a ghost haunting this house and fell in love so I time traveled so we could be together. That wouldn’t work; neither would telling her that Howard died of pneumonia in 1905 the first time he lived it. She searched for something to say that would be close to the truth but plausible.

“I just have that feeling,” Lillian said. “Sometimes I get a feeling about something and it happens.”

“Huh,” Shugie said. “I hope you are wrong as can be about it.”

“So do I.” Lillian said, wanting to lay her head down on the table and bawl, certain that no matter how much she wanted to be wrong, she would be right.

Just before the noon hour as the house filled with the enticing aromas of the main meal of the day, Lillian flipped through the pages of the new
Illustrated American
until she heard Shugie screech. She tossed down the magazine and hurried to the kitchen to see what might be the matter.

Shugie, broom in hand, stood in the center of the kitchen, her bronze skin three hues paler than normal. Tears ran down her face as she stared at the back door as if it had just become an open portal to hell. Maggie stood near Shugie, her expression shocked, and turned as Lillian entered.

“What happened?”

“I was taking the rugs out to beat,” Shugie said, in a hoarse voice. “This bird come swooping down toward me and flew right into the house. I ran it out with the broom but it was in here and that’s bad, Miss Lillian, real bad.”

It didn’t seem any worse than a spider, maybe not as bad as a snake in the house might be to Lillian who would prefer to deal with neither.

“Why?”

Shugie shook her head and buried her face in her hands. Maggie turned toward Lillian, her face drawn and taut.

“A bird in the house means death,” Maggie said. “That’s why Shugie is so upset, Lillian.”

An inner shudder rippled through her body and she felt a chill. Some dim memory of Joe’s mother, the sole grandmother figure in her life, telling her same superstition niggled and she understood Shugie’s fears. After their earlier exchange, the woman had focused her fear on Howard and now, hearing the folk belief, Lillian felt the same terror. If this was a portent, it was not a good one.

“That can’t be true,” Lillian said, denying what she felt.

“I have seen it happen before,” Maggie said, her tone as bleak as a blizzard. “We will hope for the best, Lillian, but I am unsettled myself. Please do not speak of it to Aunt Anna or Uncle Jonathon, though. There is no need to upset them. I think I will go make certain they don’t come in here until Shugie has calmed down.”

She bustled away, her black widow’s garments flapping like a crow, leaving the other two women to stare in shocked silence.

“This ain’t good,” Shugie said, leaning the broom against a counter. She used the edge of her apron to wipe at her face, removing the tears. “I’m scared now, Miss Lillian.”

“Try not to be. Howard will be fine, ” Lillian said but the words felt flat in her mouth and tasted like a lie. “We have to believe that.”

“There! You know its Mister Howard I’m worried over. You know something. I know you do,” Shugie said, eyes wide and round. “I wish you’d tell me, Miss Lillian. Then maybe I could help you, help Mister Howard but if I don’t know, I can’t.”

That was temptation; if she could spill out their strange, enchanted story, she might feel better but Shugie would think she was insane. However, then, Lillian realized if anyone here might believe her, it would be Shugie and so she spilled the story, letting it pour from her mouth and fill the room. By the time she finished, Shugie had sat down in a kitchen chair, one hand cupping her chin.

“That does beat all,” she said, still staring at Lillian. “It’s the craziest thing I ever heard in my life but I believe you. That makes a bunch of little things make sense now. I don’t know how or why it could be true but I believe you. Thing is, what we goin’ to do about it?”

“I don’t know,” Lillian said, giddy with relief at sharing their secret with someone. “I have that medicine I told you about that might save his life if he does get sick. You can’t tell anyone about this, though, Shugie.”

“I won’t.” She bit off the two words hard. “If you’re right, he’ll be home tomorrow coming down with a cold. I’ll do everything I can to help keep it from turning into lung fever, you can count on that.”

Now that Shugie knew, now that she was on board to help, Lillian felt better despite the bird in the house. Two could fight better than one and Shugie was a strong ally. Maybe, she thought, maybe it would all work out just fine.

Two hours before the train was due to arrive from Arkansas; Lillian was at the window watching for Howard’s return. Despite the omen of death, the anticipated illness, and her growing anxiety, she still hoped that he might come home in jubilant spirits and without the nagging cold that had once turned into fatal pneumonia. The sun shone but it was cold and a blustery wind made the tree branches sway in frantic rhythms. She could hear the roar of the wind even inside Seven Oak’s brick walls. Although they did not discuss their fears or Lillian’s unique circumstance again, Shugie kept close, bringing her cups of tea and a slice of crumb cake.

When the carriage at last climbed the driveway, Lillian headed for the back door to meet her husband. Howard entered with slow steps, his face drawn with fatigue but he smiled when he saw her.

“Hello, my dearest Lillian,” he said, but without his usual jocularity. “I am very glad to be home.”

He opened his arms and she walked into them, standing sideways so that her protruding belly would not hinder their embrace. When she cupped her hand over his cheek, she almost expected to find it feverish but his skin was cool. She took his hands in her own and gasped at the chill.

“Your hands are so cold.”

He nodded.

“I should have heeded your sage advice and not made the journey,” Howard said, turning his head to cough. “It was a fruitless endeavor. The equipment for sale was in such poor shape that it wasn’t worth the price and Jack Frost himself must run the hotel in Rogers. My room had no heat and the temperatures were bitter. I shivered under the thinnest blanket all night long and I have not been warm since.”

“Come in by the fire,” Lillian said, drawing him into the parlor where a good fire burned in the hearth. “Shugie has coffee made if you would like some.”

“I would, thank you darling,” Howard said. “I slept very little and I am fatigued as well as frozen.”

He shrugged his overcoat off and put it beside the sofa on the floor. Lillian sat beside him, holding his hand, and could feel the fine tremors as he shivered. Shugie produced a hot cup of coffee, black with sugar the way he liked it, and he held it in his other hand, sipping it.

“Do you feel all right, other than cold and tired?” Lillian asked.

Howard sighed. “I cannot say, dear heart. I am so fatigued that I can scarcely think straight and I am so very cold.”

“You can take a nap with me after dinner,” Lillian said. He never complained and now that he did, all her inner alarms shrieked warnings.

“Yes, I shall,” he said, increasing her anxiety. He never slept during the daytime so he must not feel well. “I imagine a warm dinner will help as well. Do my parents know I am home?”

“Your mother is making calls this morning,” Lillian said. “I think Papa is over at Mr. Miller’s to play chess until dinnertime.”

At dinner, Howard ate the ox tail soup that Shugie served as the first course with gusto but by the time the Hamburg steaks arrived with mashed potatoes, carrots, turnips, and bread, his appetite dwindled and Lillian, watching, thought he struggled to eat most of his portion. His father asked many questions about the Arkansas trip and Howard answered but without many details. Mama Speakman chatted about the women she had visited and shared town gossip but Lillian had no more than a half an ear for it. Her focus was on Howard and when she went to the kitchen to ask for more butter, Shugie whispered,

“How is he doing? He looks tuckered out.”

“He is,” Lillian said. “He promised he will come up and nap with me so maybe he can get rested.”

Upstairs, he stripped down to his winter underwear to nap, still complaining about the cold. Lillian, almost too warm, scooted over to cuddle with him, sharing her body heat. He drifted off to sleep within minutes but she lay awake, watching him. He coughed several times in his sleep but did not wake. When he did rouse, it was late afternoon and she was up, dressed fully, in the rocking chair.

“Hello, honey,” Lillian said, as he sat up, blinking, hair tousled. “Did you get rested?”

He coughed and cleared his throat.

“I hope so.” His voice sounded raspy. “I think I may be coming down with a cold, though.”

Fear kindled, a burning flame that set her nerves twitching.

“I hope not. Do you feel warm now?”

He nodded. “I do, darling. Do you know the time?”

“It’s after four thirty, almost supper time. Are you hungry?”

Lillian made her questions casual, trying to hide her anxiety.

“I am, a bit,” he said.

At supper, he ate the warmed up ox-tail soup and the cheese rice dish Shugie served with obvious appetite. He played the piano after the meal and she relaxed, even though he often had to dig out his handkerchief to wipe his nose. They retired early and she thought he would stay close to home to nurse his cold, but when she awakened to find his side of the bed empty, Lillian panicked. Downstairs, Mama told her he had gone out to the farm.

“Why did he do that?” Lillian asked, trying to eat the steaming bowl of oatmeal with brown sugar.

“He loves that farm, daughter. He wanted to check on everything and it is a nice day. The sun is shining and it has warmed up again,” Papa Speakman said.

“I don’t think he should be out. His cold might get worse,” Lillian said, the oatmeal lying in her stomach like cement. She pushed the spoon away.

“Howard will be just fine,” Mama said. “He has a strong constitution and he has never been sick. He’ll shake off that cold, you will see, Lillian.”

They must have put on their rose-colored glasses but she had none. She couldn’t eat so she wandered into the kitchen to talk to Shugie but after a few moments, she realized that they just fed each other’s fear so she retreated into the second parlor. Maggie came into the room, widow’s weeds trailing behind her.

“There you are, Lillian. Miss Julia invited me to visit downtown with her and I thought I would ask if you needed anything. I can pick up anything you like.”

“Thank you but I can’t think of a thing,” Lillian said. The things she might wish for – more antibiotics, for instance – were things that Maggie could not produce.

This warm weather lasted through Saturday and every day, Howard headed for the farm, despite a nagging cough and runny nose. Lillian said little, tried not to worry, and refrained from fussing until he came home in shirtsleeves on Saturday to find her in the second parlor.

“What are you doing? Do you want to come down with pneumonia?”

“Darling Lillian, of course I do not,” Howard said, and then sniffed. “The weather is grand out, warm as spring time. My coat was far too warm so I removed it.”

No matter how he felt, he was in good spirits. Exasperated, she sighed, very loud and he laughed.

“Don’t worry. The weather is about to change again, dear heart. The mare’s tails are back and I fear it will turn much colder. Tomorrow if I go to the farm, I promise to wear my coat, hat, and gloves. Does that make you feel better?”

“It might,” Lillian said. “Tomorrow is Sunday, though. You won’t go to the farm on Sunday, will you?”

He sat down at the piano and tinkled the keys in random notes.

“I may need to if the weather turns very cold to save the crops. We have talked about this before, Lillian. Some of the old timers say we are about to be hit with some of the coldest weather in years. If I do, however, it will be after church if you would like to go.”

Now that church was one of her few outings, she did.

“I do want to go.”

“Then we shall, my love.”

On Sunday morning, it was much colder out but the wind was calm. As they set out – all five of them, Howard, his parents, Maggie, and herself – Lillian pulled her coat closer. Howard had several coughing fits during church, muffled by his handkerchief but he wasn’t fevered – she touched him often enough to be certain of that. At home, Shugie served up chicken and dumplings with her light biscuits and Howard ate two bowls. Shugie, with a worry line dividing her forehead, watched but did not smile.

“You ought to take a rest after dinner, Mister Howard,” she said, as she exchanged the main course for an apple cake dessert. “It’s awful cold out there.”

“Thank you, Shugie,” Howard said. “That is exactly why I need to go out to the farm and make sure that the hands are doing everything possible to protect our crops.”

“I wish you wouldn’t,” Lillian said, a sob suddenly caught in her throat like a fish bone. She remembered what he had told her before, that after a meal of chicken and dumplings, he went out to the farm in bitter cold weather and fell ill within a few days.

He coughed with such force that he grasped the edge of the table for support and the table quivered, rattling the silverware.

“I must, dear wife.” His tone was firm and his expression wasn’t open to debate. “We have discussed this.”

“Will you please dress as warm as you can, then?” Lillian asked.

“I will.”

She trailed him upstairs where he removed his Sunday suit. Howard donned what he called his “union suit”, heavy woolen long underwear, beneath his blue denim overalls and flannel shirt. She watched as he put on two pairs of socks beneath his boots, buttoned into his heaviest overcoat, added a hat, wrapped a muffler around his neck, and put on gloves. He topped it all with a hat and turned for her approval.

“What do you think, darling?”

“I think if you put any more clothing on, you would probably fall over into the floor and be too stiff to move,” Lillian said. “But you should be warm.”

“I will be fine.” He kissed her. “I may be late so do not try to wait up for me. I have no idea when I may be home if the temperature keeps falling.”

She nodded, unable to speak around the tears that choked her throat but when he reached the bedroom door, she called after him,

“Howard, I love you!”

Despite the heavy garments, he made a courtly bow to her.

“And I love you, dear heart.”

Although he said not to expect him, Lillian hoped he would come for supper but he did not arrive and by bedtime, she realized he would not come any time soon. By then, the wind roared outside and it was very frigid. Mama and Papa retired early, wishing her a good night’s sleep and left her sitting up with Maggie. Although she now liked Maggie and could understand Howard’s affection for his cousin, there were still moments when Maggie leaned toward the grim. If she did tonight, Lillian could not bear it.

“Would you like me to play music to pass the time?” Maggie asked.

“Thank you but not tonight,” Lillian said. “I thought I might read for awhile while we wait for Howard.”

“I fear he may not come home at all,” Maggie said. “He must protect the trees and the berries if he can.”

“I know,” Lillian said. “But I would like to be here, waiting, if he comes home tonight.”

By the time that the hall clock chimed midnight, however, she could not stay awake and so she trailed upstairs, to the cold, lonely bed where she slept little. She woke before dawn but Howard was not home. Lillian slid out of bed, put on her slippers, put on her wrapper, and sat on the stair above the landing with the big window. From it, she could look across the dark valley to where the farm lay so she watched. A full-bellied moon shed silver light over everything but as it began to slip toward setting, Lillian thought she could see distant flames on the farm. Although it was cool on the stairs, she sat there until morning, her thoughts flying toward Howard like homing pigeons and her prayers rising toward a God that she hoped might hear her.

From her position, facing west, she could not see the sunrise but when the darkness began to diminish, she heard someone open the back screen door and Lillian, hoping it might be Howard, hurried downstairs. She burst into the kitchen and stopped as Shugie pushed through the door, arms laden with bundles.

“Oh, it’s only you,” Lillian said and burst into tears.

Shugie put down her bundles and hugged her.

“Here, now, what’s the matter with you?” Shugie said. “Ain’t Mister Howard come home from the farm?”

“No,” Lillian sobbed. “He hasn’t and I’m worried. Its so cold and I thought I could see fires over there by the farm. I was watching from the landing window.”

Shugie released her and steered her to a chair.

“Sit down, Lillian. That ain’t nothing but the smudge pots. They burn them trying to keep it hot enough around the orchard. He’s trying to save the farm but I’m worried too. Quit that crying and calm down. He won’t like coming home to you crying like a baby.”

She must be worried because she had seldom dropped the “Miss” from Lillian’s name as she did now.

Lillian tried to choke back her sobs and wiped at her tear stained face with the cloth Shugie handed her.

“What do we do now, Shugie?”

“We wait for him to come home,” Shugie said. “And while we waiting, I’ll put on the coffee and make the breakfast ‘case he comes back hungry. I’m goin’ make soup today too. If he don’t come on back, I’ll send Jim with soup and coffee to the farm.”